


A Wedding in Arcadia #8 -- Wedding Night

by merry_amelie



Series: Academic Arcadia [57]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-09
Updated: 2005-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merry_amelie/pseuds/merry_amelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn and Ian know how to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wedding in Arcadia #8 -- Wedding Night

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback: Is treasured at merryamelie@aol.com (or leave a comment).
> 
> Disclaimer: Mr. Lucas owns everything Star Wars. I'm not making any money.
> 
> To Alex, Ula, and Nerowill, my friends and betas extraordinaire.

When they got back to their suite, Quinn bolted the door, holding Ian's eyes with a roguish smile. Those tuxedos were coming off fast.

"Y'look so good in that tux, lad." Quinn's voice was impossibly low, almost inaudible. "Pity 'twon't be on you much longer." Quinn took off Ian's jacket, embracing him while he was at it, and threw it soundlessly to the carpet.

"Neither will yours, ma handsome devil," Ian said, his rough silk voice itself a caress. Suiting his action to the word, the jacket joined its mate on the floor.

Quinn wrapped his arms around Ian, his hands stroking over the linen of Ian's shirt, savoring the thin material after a day spent in their cumbersome finery.

Their wedding kiss, just begun at the chapel, had been waiting impatiently all afternoon for them to continue it, this time in private. Amazing the abandon that a bolted door could bring.

Quinn's tongue, as familiar to Ian as his own, sought the haven of Ian's mouth and began a delicious exploration. He teased out the flavors of mocha and champagne, inextricably linked to their wedding celebration from then on.

Ian's tongue joined Quinn's in an intimate wedding dance, recognizing each tooth and filling, delighting in the textures of clean enamel and polished metal. He knew how much Quinn loved it when he stroked over his hard palate with just the right pressure. His playfulness in the midst of lovemaking never failed to bring out Quinn's inner boy.

"So good," Quinn said, touching foreheads with Ian.

"Mmm-hmm," replied Ian dreamily.

Anxious to feel one another's skin, both reached for each other's bowties at the same moment. The knots yielded in record time, giving them access to the buttons of their shirts beneath.

Ian's hungry tongue dipped inside Quinn's starched shirt, seeking his unique flavor. His fingers, restless over Quinn's shoulders, itched to undress him now. At Quinn's moan, Ian undid the remainder of the buttons and pulled Quinn's shirt off quickly. "Thought that party'd never end."

"You _are_ in a hurry," Quinn growled, kissing Ian as he unbuttoned him, feeling Ian's passion grow with each bit of skin exposed. His mouth followed the path of his hands, kissing and suckling Ian's tender flesh as if he'd never taste enough of it. He discarded the shirt as an afterthought, intent on winning groans from Ian. A patch beneath his left rib was exceptionally sensitive, as Quinn had found out one long-ago May evening. This was the way Quinn had begun making love to him on their first night together.

Ian ran tender fingers through Quinn's hair, saying in wonder, "You still remember!"

"I'll never forget, lad." And Quinn would never forget this either, their wedding night, a blessing he'd thought he would never see.

Bare to the waist, they embraced, each eager to feel their second skin, familiar with every nuance of its topography and the musculature beneath. Cream poured over hard muscle, an intoxicating combination to which their hands and mouths were drawn incessantly.

"Ma guid-man" ('my husband; my master' in Scottish). Ian gasped as Quinn's fingers delved beneath the waistband of his slacks. Sometimes, when their lovemaking became particularly intense, Ian would grunt out the words of his ancestors. He ran unsteady fingers through Quinn's hair, and pulled him up for a claiming kiss.

Quinn adored teasing out the burr, the intensity of Ian's reactions a mirror to his own. He answered in his own nursery language, all instinct now. "Mo fearcheile" ('my husband' in Irish).

When Ian flicked the hot spot under Quinn's adam's apple with the point of his tongue, Quinn groaned and almost lost it right there. Ian's strong arms were the only thing holding him up.

That open mouth just had to be taken in a kiss right away. And Quinn just had to deepen it. They fed each other kisses as they had the cake -- voraciously. Hunger far from assuaged, they became all the more ravenous. Each caress led to another in an escalation of pleasure almost too intense to be borne.

Their pants needed off now, flesh pressing uncomfortably against the zippers, the cotton of their boxer briefs the only buffer. They unzipped their slacks with sweaty fingers, dropping them where they stood. Stepping out of the fabric, they immediately sought the bliss of one another's arms.

Quinn hooked his thumbs in Ian's waistband, pulled outwards to give him room, and slid the heather briefs down his tensing thighs. Ian did the same, then they were fused together along the length of their bodies. Lips never apart, hips restless, they couldn't resist the pull of the bedroom any longer.

The two landed on the bed in a tangle of limbs, but managed to press up against each other just right, their bodies instinctively fitting together as they always did. Though their shirts were long gone, they knew one another's every button and just when to push.

Ian nuzzled against Quinn's cheek, while his firm hands lingered over the well-loved skin of Quinn's arms and thighs. Fingers were followed by lips, drawing growls from deep within Quinn's chest. Ian licked a long trail down Quinn's right leg, teasing his thigh, gliding round his knee, savoring his calf, dabbing lightly over his ankle, kissing his sole.

Quinn brought him up for another incendiary kiss. When he started to stroke Ian intimately, big hand all but engulfing him, Ian bucked under him so hard that Quinn needed all his height and weight to hold his lad down. Ian had just enough control left to reciprocate, trying to concentrate on Quinn's pleasure.

It didn't take long for them to set one another off; they'd been craving each other for hours, their cake smushing and waltz intensifying the fire sparked by their wedding kiss. Welcome tremors coursed through them as Ian crushed their lips together, finesse long gone, replaced by driving need.

The peak attained, the men flowed into stillness, just as they did after their joint katas.

Ian found the energy to brush a damp lock of hair off Quinn's forehead. "So how does it feel t'make love with your husband?"

Quinn gulped in air, waiting a bit before trying to speak. "Just right."

Ian grinned and whispered, "Yeah."

Quinn couldn't wait any longer for another kiss, so he captured his groom's smiling lips, and started a leisurely practicum on the art of kissing.

Their wedding night had just begun.


End file.
